Pet Psychic Mysteries Boxset Books 5-8 (Magic Market Mysteries Book 2) by Erin Johnson (simple ebook reader .txt) 📕

Peter checked in with a couple of the cops collecting evidence while I hung back beside Russo, who’d brought in Quincy Rutherford in case we had any questions for him. I frowned as I took that in. Malorie had married Richard Rutherford as her first husband, which meant...

I spun to face Quincy. “You took Malorie’s name when you got married?”

His cheeks turned a little pink, but he lifted his large nose in the air, his jowls wobbling a bit. “Yes. And?”

I pressed my lips together and nodded. “Very progressive of you.” I turned away. And odd. Quincy and Malorie had no doubt kept the Rutherford name because of the clout it carried among the elite, but neither of them had been born Rutherfords.

A middle-aged cop with her blond hair tucked into a low bun under her cap rummaged around the papers stacked in piles on the huge wooden desk in the back of the room. She tossed some over her left shoulder, others over her right. They magically floated into various evidence bags. Peter sidled up beside her.

“Hey, Rochester, were you among the first in here?”

She barely spared him a glance, then nodded and went back to sorting evidence. “Yep.”

Peter nodded. “Was the door locked?”

She shook her head, eyes on her work. “Nope. Door was ajar, in fact.”

Peter and I exchanged looks. If someone needed a key to get into the office and grab the blow gun, that limited our suspects considerably. But Quincy had mentioned he was forgetful and often forgot to lock the office up, which would open our pool of suspects up to basically all the hundreds of party guests, plus staff.

The blond looked up. “Speaking of which, we checked the door to the second-story viewing platform in the phoenix’s cage. Also unlocked.”

I turned to face the widower. “Hey, Quincy, did you go into the office today?”

His throat bobbed. “Yes.”

Daisy stood in the middle of the room under the antler chandelier, looking between Peter and me. Her dark eyes locked onto Quincy, and she wagged her tail. True.

I nodded and turned back to him. “And the last time you were in here, do you remember if you locked it up behind you?”

He wrung his long hands. “I—I’m not sure, but I don’t think I did.” He hung his head.

I sighed. So just about anyone might’ve had access to the keys.

Peter watched him. “Where was the blow gun kept?”

Quincy looked up and gestured at the wall behind Peter. It was covered in peacock feather wallpaper with several wood racks supporting a row of blow guns, all carved and painted intricately. “Right there at the top.” His deep voice cracked.

Peter looked it over and muttered something to the cop beside him. She stopped her sorting of the desk and turned to bag up the other blow guns. Beside them, a rack held an assortment of feathered darts—one in the middle conspicuously missing.

Peter turned back to us. “The last time you were in here—do you remember seeing the blow gun on the wall?”

Quincy moved closer, eyes on the wall. “Yes—yes, I do.” He seemed almost entranced by the spot that would’ve held the missing feathered dart.

Daisy let out a whine that slid into a growl. Mixed read.

I narrowed my eyes as the back of my neck prickled, feeling suddenly suspicious. “Quincy—”

He snapped out of it and whipped his head around to stare at me, wide-eyed.

I stepped toward him. “Did you use the blow gun on your wife, Malorie?”

12

Darts

Russo’s thick brows jumped up, and he hastily shoved the bridge of his glasses up his nose. The other cops all looked up from their work to hear Quincy’s answer.

He glanced at Daisy, who held very still, then squared his thin shoulders. “No. No, I didn’t use a blow gun on my wife or on anyone else, for that matter!”

Everyone’s eyes turned to Daisy. The German shepherd whined. True.

I cocked my head. “And you didn’t ask someone else to use it on her?”

Quincy’s cheeks reddened. “No!”

I nodded. “Right. Thanks.” Guess I’d been on the wrong track there.

Peter looked around as the other officers returned to their work. He moved to the painted leopard print wood cabinet and paused with his hands on the pulls.

Quincy pointed. “We keep some of the meds chilled in there.” He gulped.

Peter pulled the double doors open, and cold air poured out. Goose bumps prickled my arms, and I rubbed them. It felt downright nippy in the humid air.

Peter bent to look over the shelves, all lined with tiny glass vials full of glowing potions. Quincy, frowning, rushed closer. “Why—so many are missing. This doesn’t make sense!”

I joined them, as did Daisy and Russo. Shivering, I looked over the shelves. Big gaps in the vials indicated that a lot of them were gone.

Peter frowned. “Could this be related to your wife’s murder? Were these vials valuable?”

Quincy craned his skinny neck forward, blinking at the empty spots. “I—I don’t know, to be honest.”

I pointed at a bare bit of middle shelf. “What was kept here?”

He shrugged. “No idea.”

The tip of Daisy’s tail wagged as she lifted her nose, sniffing the air. True.

I shot Peter a look. What did this guy know? He was clearly not very involved in the running of the sanctuary; he’d admitted so himself. Maybe the vials weren’t even missing—maybe they’d just been used up and the sanctuary was waiting on a shipment of more meds.

Peter seemed to be thinking something along the same lines. He nodded and stepped back. “Alright, no worries, we’ll look into it.” He scanned the office, frowning. “As far as the office being unlocked, does it appear anything else is missing or could have been stolen?”

Quincy turned from the cabinet, wringing his hands, and looked around. “I—I don’t immediately see anything else that was stolen.” He let out a whimper. “Though, Malorie handled most of everything related to the sanctuary. I didn’t spend much time in here, typically.”

Something glinted in the candlelight cast by the antler chandelier